like
moss to a stone
moths to a light
sand through the hourglass
it is right
to think these days
of our lives are not
so operatic as
all that. but

can we still
appreciate those little
words lined up
so neat like beer
glossy on countertops
in an advertisement,

fuzzy phrases so
utterly known
by the rhythm
of their words
the warmth conjured
by sounds needless of
cognition it
is comfortable to
enjoy these things
yes because
they prove the world isn't
neat and syntactical (it is not)
as if it were
they would
not be sayings but laws
like  grey
immutable gravity
and nothing but the
neutered cry of a
flat response could
know anything so strange
as poetry.